


Miss the Sea. Love the Heat.

by TheAdamantDaughter



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Modern AU, Zutara, europe au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAdamantDaughter/pseuds/TheAdamantDaughter
Summary: They both think it’s unrequited, until Zuko buys Katara a ticket to visit him in Europe.





	Miss the Sea. Love the Heat.

** `I miss the sea.` **

It’s 8:18 in the morning. Katara tries to picture what Zuko’s doing.

The sun’s down there. It has been for hours now, despite it’s recent rise over the glistening waters that surround her in Honolulu. She’s just getting out of bed. He’s likely cooking dinner. Or already eating it. Or out somewhere in some pub eating _chips_ , as he now calls it.  

Katara pictures him alone in a barely-lit booth. He’s probably in red, most likely a t-shirt because he never gets cold. His jeans are ripped. He’d have on those beat up motorcycle boots, despite his bike’s position in Sokka’s garage.

She can see his hair falling in his eyes, can see gold flashing with irritation and his lips pursing as he blows the black strands away. His gaze slips back to whatever he is doing--- reading a paper or writing in his favorite leather bound notebook.

His phone sits on the table next to him. And that’s when the mirage collapses.

Every time Katara imagines him, she imagines herself, too--- sitting by him or across from him; his eyes are never on the book. They’re always on her.

Sometimes, she wishes they’d chosen the same city, even the same continent. Maybe she could’ve compromised and gone to graduate school in Boulder; he could’ve started his company in Denver, like he considered at first.

They could be closer, be _together._

But, Honolulu is her dream and London is as far from his father’s prison as he can reasonably get, so here they are.... eleven hours apart.

She glances at her phone again, knowing he’s waiting on the other end. And a smile appears, whether she wants it to or not. Katara can try to be sour, but it’s impossible when his text reminds her of the four weeks they spent together last year, romping around the many beaches of Hawaii.

It hits her that she misses him, more than she should--- she just doesn’t know how to say it.   

** `I miss the heat. ` **

Her thoughts drift to a sweltering week in Vegas; a trip for his 25th. That was just last summer... she will be graduating in the coming spring.

 _Would_ she _go there? Or would_ he _come back to the sea?_

* * *

 

Katara marks another day off her calendar, a blue slash through the two inch square. Her fall semester is ending in two days, but she’s finished with her finals. And moping around, as Suki puts it. 

How many weeks has it been since she’s seen him? Thirteen, _fourteen weeks?_

She knows it’s been one since they’ve spoken. 

It isn’t for a lack of effort, on his part anyway. He texts her everyday, a word here, a paragraph there. 

Sometimes it hurts too much to read them. 

* * *

She has no plans for winter break. She tells him over lunch one day.  

He texts back, **`I’m traveling for Christmas. Come with me. `**

Katara shakes her head at the little, digital screen. 

**` I’m a med student, idiot. Do you think money grows on trees? ` **

She rolls her eyes, because for him, it practically did. His father’s empire was dismantled when he was seventeen... sold off in pieces... the earnings stuffed into a trust. Zuko could live like a prince on the interest alone; of course, he chose to reinvest it, make something honorable of it all.

A handful of imaginative thoughts later, and he’s still silent.

Maybe he thinks her answer is too harsh, or maybe he’s fallen asleep. Katara checks her watch. It’s after 11 PM there. She sighs, thinking she’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

Her phone buzzes.

**` Check your email.  ` **

Katara’s fingers shake as she switches between apps. With her inbox open, her heart is racing. She drags down on the screen a dozen times, watching that little circle spin for what seems like eternity.

> ** Unread Messages (1) **

Kayak.com. British Airways. She leaves the coming Saturday morning and she lands early on Monday. In London.

Katara’s breath stops and she types as fast as she can: 

**` Is this real? ` **

**` I’ll call you in the morning. Night, Kat. ` **

His morning or hers?

* * *

She gets the answer when her phone buzzes at 6:17 AM. _How does he know that she’s starting waking at sunrise ever since he left?_ Katara pushes her laptop aside and picks up.

"That was a four thousand dollar ticket!” 

He laughs on the other end. “You’re snoopy this morning, aren’t you?”

“Was first class really necessary?” 

“The seats turn into beds, plus, you’ll get champagne.” 

 _“Oh...”_  All her protests die. She presses shaking fingertips to her parted lips. “I- thank you, Zuko.” 

“Mhmm.” 

She hears an elevator ding, then a clamor of voices following him out onto the street. Suddenly, her ear is full of honking horns and men shouting for a taxis. Katara wonders if he’s leaving his office. 

He clears his throat on the other end, “I told you, Kat... I miss the sea.” 

The phrase feels ambiguous, like there’s something more he wants to say, something he hopes the pregnant pause will allude. 

Katara hums, wishing she could see his soft eyes, “I love the heat.”  

* * *

“Are you ready?” Suki asks, lugging one of Katara’s two over-the-weight limit suitcases to the British Airways attendant who stands on the curb. 

Sokka has the other. He slams the trunk shut and catches them at the desk. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t be! She got enough stuff to last herself a century.” 

“Oh, and you’re innocent of overpacking?” Suki rolls her eyes.

“I'm going for six weeks, Sokka,” Katara fumbles in her wallet, then hands the baggage agent her passport and ticket. “Plus, it’s cold there, and you know how much room boots take up.” 

While the attendant is busy, Katara catches her friend grinning. 

“It may partially be my fault,” Suki quips, her expression shifting from innocence to mischief. 

“What?” The siblings bark together.

"We’ve been the same size for years, haven’t we?”

Katara nods slowly, and the butterflies in her stomach inexplicably worsen. Until this very moment, she hadn’t thought she’d be nervous. It’s just a trip. It’s just her friend. She’s been on a dozen other vacations with him. 

But, she swallows, and her brain taunts over the airport’s din. 

_Just a friend. Just a friend. Just a friend._

The bags disappear on a conveyor belt, and the attendant hands her a receipt.

She feels like she should be worried. “What’s in my suitcase, Suki?”

“You’ll see when you get there,” her friend shrugs, then pulls Katara in for a tight hug. “Have fun, okay? Make Zuko loosen up a bit.”

* * *

She’s no longer tired when she sees him. 

_“Zuko!”_

His voice drips with an emotion she can’t name, “Hey, Kat,” and Katara slams into his chest. 

Everything about him is warm. His arms wrap around her in a cocoon of heat, a shield from the cold that fills baggage claim. He smells of cinnamon and fires, a cozy place by the hearth with her favorite book. His heart thumps under her cheek, and she nuzzles her nose into the fibers of his wool shirt. 

She wonders how she’ll ever go home. 

When his lips brush the top of her head, and he tells her he missed her, she thinks she won’t. 

* * *

 

 

He remembers her wish to visit the Eiffel Tower, to eat macaroons on a bench outside Notre Dame.

They go from the airport to the Eurostar station to Paris. Katara feels guilty for sleeping through the entire ride, but Zuko takes it as a sign to keep the evening light, easy. They walk along the Seine, shopping and licking ice cream.

He buys her a bottle of Chanel when she won’t stop inhaling it. Katara gives him an ornamental Vespa for his Christmas tree. Zuko teases her about her difficulty with surfing lessons. She embarrasses him at one of the many mature movie carts.

Her mortification comes that evening, when Zuko helps her unpack in their room for the next week.

 _“Uhm,_ Katara, what is this?”

He’s holding up something lacy and light pink.

For a moment, Katara can’t decide if she’s looking at the front or the back. The entire ensemble is so strappy and small she doesn't think it’ll cover her ass. Then, reality smacks her in the face and she realizes it’s not meant to.

“That’s not _mine!”_ She lunges over her bed, snatching the lingerie from him and cursing Suki under her breath.

“That’d be a very convincing argument,” His eyes fall from hers to the suitcase, and Zuko licks his lips, “if this wasn’t your bag.”

She glances down with him, catching a glimpse of red and pink and silk and lace. Her mouth drops open, all the while, Zuko’s face is shifting from surprise to-

That smirk, that cocky little smirk like the lingerie is for him.

Katara snaps the lid shut, stuttering, “N-no. No! _Zuko!_ ” She sets her jaw, her nostrils flaring in embarrassment, but she hopes it looks like admonishment. “Don’t you dare!”

“What?” He shrugs nonchalantly, but his cheeks are burning red. And, she can still see _it,_ the picture he’s conjuring up in his head as his gaze wanders over her hips. “So what? You wear lacy teddies under your dresses...”

“I don’t---” Katara realizes it’s no use. She growls, and tries to pop him with lace in her hand, like they’re teenage boys in a locker room. “Stop it. Stop thinking about me in it!”

Zuko dances out of reach, laughing. “Sorry, Moonpeach. It’s already burned into my eyelids.”

The nickname does nothing to assuage her. Katara scrambles towards him, and that time, she makes contact.

 _“Go!”_ She shoves him towards the other side of the room. “Get! Get on your own bed!! And do not cross the middle of the room again.”

* * *

The distance doesn’t last.

He puts on Moana with a sly smile and she’s curled up next to him, stealing half the popcorn and all of the warmth that rolls off his skin.

Katara ends up tangling a leg between his. Zuko shifts to his side, presses his forehead to hers. She feels her way across his bare chest. His fingers dance in the curve of her waist. Something _hot_ flares in her belly.

Part of her wants to kiss him. It’s something of a miracle they never have, with all the time they’ve spent alone in the past. Or maybe it’s not a miracle; maybe it’s the part of her that fears she’ll lose her best friend that drowns out the urge.

And even if Zuko feels the same inexplicable need, he’ll never close the distance without her permission.

Katara sighs, and whispers, “I miss the heat.”

His breath flutters over her lips. “I love the sea.”

* * *

When she wakes to the sound of bird song, the sheets beside her are mussed and there’s a dent in the pillow to her left.

Her gaze drifts from the white cotton to the short hall by the bathroom. He’s in the floor length mirror, wearing nothing but a towel too low around sculpted hips and dragging a razor along his jaw.

She stares at the droplets of water that speckle his back. Then, Katara closes her eyes, praying the vision will follow her into a shallow dream.

* * *

He plans a day at the Louvre, because she’s always been an art history fanatic and the museum is rich with it. _Renaissance. Rococo. Romanticism._ Katara finds herself mostly looking at him.

They journey to the top of the Eiffel Tower. The whole of the city is spread out before her and the sun highlights the bright greens of the trees. Zuko watches the leaves move with mild amusement.

She watches Zuko.

He takes her to dinners, to cathedrals, to Disney: it’s beautiful and stunning and pure magic. Katara knows she should be falling in love with the city---

She’s only falling deeper in love with him.

* * *

When their two weeks in Paris end, they board a plane for Germany. Katara takes her seat with a sense of melancholy longing. Not for the streets or the people or the food of France, but for that feeling--- the fall.

They visit Berlin and Frankfurt, but there’s no where she likes better than Munich.

Zuko shows her Neuschwanstein Castle, tells her about the swan-obsessed king who built it during his rule over Bavaria. She asks him what he’d build if he had a kingdom. He says _‘nothing,’_ he has everything he needs.

Her heart skips in her chest. Katara realizes she’s past the fall. She’s crashing.

At a souvenir shop, Zuko finds a sweater with an ugly duckling on it and dares her to wear it. Katara says it’s hideous, says if he loves her, he’ll wear one, too.

He pulls a matching knit over his head and kisses her cheek.

Her face is burning when he pulls away, like a fire ignited from that brief touch of his lips against her skin. Katara decides she likes the fire; she wants more of the fire. She catches his hand before he’s turned away, grabs his shirt with the other before the moment’s gone--- and he knows.

 _God,_ he knows.

He’s smiling when his mouth crashes into hers, and it’s like a wave against the shore. Her eyes close and his fingers run up her arms into her hair, threading through the locks that tickle her neck, intertwining in the strands. She fists his shirt at first, then her hands relax and spread out on his stomach, holding his hips, fingertips digging into muscles she wants to memorize.

Right now, all she can do is memorize his taste. Mint, from the chocolate he ate earlier. A hint of Earl Grey, a dash of sugar. She chases the flavor of cinnamon across his tongue, thinking that suits him the best.

Katara swears he groans when they break away. His eyes are bright, way too bright, like coals standing out in the dead of night. She’s breathless and stunned, trembling in the middle of a shop where other patrons throw them odd looks.

She doesn’t know what to say, doesn't know what to do. _“I love the heat,”_ finally bubbles to the surface, because that’s what she’s always said, all she’s ever known how to say. They both know what it means; they both know.

Zuko shakes his head as a laugh dances from his lips.

“I love the sea.”

* * *

“We’re going to Vienna,” Zuko says, flashing two tickets at the conductor.

The man nods and points them towards the end of the train platform.

“I thought you might want to see the State Opera House.” Zuko spreads a palm across Katara’s lower back as she climbs the steps into the train. “The troupe is performing The Phantom of the Opera tomorrow night.”

“My favorite,” Katara murmurs, following the train’s narrow aisle to the correct car.

A private car, she realizes, as Zuko reaches over her shoulder to slide the door open.

Windows line the length of it, letting in the setting sun that trickles through the station’s glass roof. The gold light slants across a comfortable sofa. There’s a coffee table in front of that, with some untouched reading materials displayed strategically.

From there, her eyes drift to a kitchenette with a miniature fridge and an electric kettle, to a door that hides the bathroom, to a full bed tucked in the corner.

“It’s a ten hour ride,” Zuko explains, setting his carryon down on the sofa. He dumps hers on the bed, a shy smile appearing on his lips. “You used to talk about riding a night train.”

Katara swallows, still frozen in the doorway, “Do you remember _every_ little wish I made in highschool?”

“I---” He shrugs, and his hand flies up to rub at the blush leaking down the back of his neck. His eyes dart away. “Yeah… I- try to.”

She finally leaves the entrance, and the door slides into place, closing them in. Her heart’s in her throat as she walks over to the bed. Katara traces the rivulets in the quilt, staring at the pillows.

“Is it too much? I- I’ll sleep on the sofa---”

“No. No, it’s just one night,” she says.

Even though it’s not. Even though it’s been every night… curled up, twisted up, soaking each other up while they dream, like the long days aren’t enough time together and they need the nights, too.

_Just a friend. Just a friend. Just a friend._

Katara gives him a shy smile, but his eyes are glazed over. She wonders if he’s thinking the same thing; if he’s worrying over the kiss, what it means, what they do now.

Then his breath comes in a puff, and he mutters, “Okay,” before moving towards the kitchenette.

“Can I get you anything?” Zuko asks, opening the fridge. “Coffee? Tea? Soda? There’s wine in here...” His voice drops to a disgruntled mumble. “Shitty wine…”  

“It’s fine,” Katara shakes her head, cursing herself for giving in, for not listening to the voice that stopped her from kissing him in Paris. “I’m okay.”

She should’ve just let him walk away. She should’ve left him alone. The air feels tense now, thick with uncertainty--- Katara can only pinpoint _that fucking kiss._

She wants to cry, but he’s behind her, clattering around with glass bottles and ice. So, she lashes out in the only way she can.

Her hands catch the bottom of the ugly duckling sweater, and she yanks it over her head. The scratchy red wool looks like blood on the white bedspread. Katara feels like it might as well be hers, with the knife that’s twisting around in her gut, a knife she stabbed herself with.

_“Damn…”_

Katara turns when he cusses, her hands smoothing her silky cream camisole back into the waistband of her skirt. He’s pouring Jack Daniels over ice, but his eyes are on her.

“I thought you wore lacy teddies under your clothes,” Zuko remarks, his mouth curling into a smirk behind the raised tumbler.

She has to blink slowly, has to fight off the imagined taste of liquor on his tongue. “Only under dresses, remember?”

 _“Oh.”_ He lowers the glass and licks his lips, much more slowly than necessary, like he’s trying to remind her that his tongue made her shiver just two hours before. Or maybe she’s just seeing things.

Zuko quirks a brow, “Any chance I’ll get to see that?”

Katara considers yanking the figurative knife out of her stomach and shoving it into his, if not for the comment, than for his distinguished knowledge of female undergarments. A feeling like jealously unfurls in her blood. But a smile betrays her, then she laughs.

Of course, he won’t let her be sour. He won’t let her frump or pout. Just one comment… and he’s lightened the mood. He’s told her, without a confrontation, that he’ll tease her, he’ll thrill her, he’ll be her friend and her lover and anything else she wants.

Katara considers smacking him for _that,_ for knowing her thoughts like the back of his hand.

“If you ask again,” she jibes, “the answer will _always_ be no.”

“So there's a possibility? If I keep my mouth closed, at least.”

“Shut up, Zuko.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

He grins cheekily and Katara rolls her eyes.

She crosses the little space separating them and sits on the coffee table, stealing the chilled drink from where he rested it on his knee.

Zuko’s gaze follows the rim to her lips. “Since when to do you like whiskey?”

“I don’t,” Katara mutters, slurping up an ice cube to chase the burn down her throat. “But, I’m hoping it’ll help.”

“Trains make you nervous?”  

“No.”

She gives the tumbler back. Zuko leans forward and sets it on the coffee table.

He doesn’t return his hand to his lap. He doesn’t slump against the sofa’s back. He doesn't look at her, either. He taps on the polished wood, right beside her thigh. His eyes are on her lips.

Katara can hear her pulse in the heavy silence that weighs them down.

His fingers forgo their random pattern on wood and skim up her leg. He brushes the hem of her skirt, following the seam up to her hip. Then, his other hand does the same, and Zuko grabs her, pulling her from her perch on the coffee table.

At first, his fingers splay across her lower back, digging in slightly as she settles in his lap, her knees on either side of his waist. When her tongue encourages his into her mouth, however, he takes that as permission to move, to touch, to memorize the dips between vertebrae and the spaces between her ribs.

Zuko seems to count every single one… before Katara directs his hands to her chest, leaves them there, lets him do as he pleases.

He thumbs the underside of her breasts, making her skin prickle. His fingers trace over the peaks, drawing slow circles until her nipples pebble up under his touch and she’s biting her lip to stifle the sounds she wants to make.

Then, he cups her roughly, squeezes, laps at her through the camisole. When the silk is see through, Zuko growls her name under his breath.

Katara threads her fingers into his hair. “Don’t stop… don’t stop _anything.”_

A moan vibrates in his throat.

“There’s---” He kisses from her breasts to her neck, then her lips, chasing the little mewls that slip free of her tongue, chasing the different ways he can drag the sounds out. “I have a condom. In my wallet.”

“Get it.” She spurs him on with a slow rock of her hips, her forehead against his.

That leaves him speechless. His mouth gapes for a beat, then his left hand darts towards the bag he dumped on the sofa while his other slips under skirt to grip her ass. In any other situation, she might’ve marveled at his sudden ability to multi-task: feeling around in the front pocket of his backpack while meeting every thrust she gives... but Katara’s panting.

Zuko is, too. He guides her into a rhythm of quick jerks and languid circles, showing her what he wants, learning what makes her shake---

Until he’s throbbing against her, his body begging, and Katara’s sure she’s soaked through her panties and his pants. Until she thinks she would die for this.

Her camisole is the first casualty.

Zuko pulls it over her head once he has the foil wrapper tucked in his hand. He leaves marks from her collarbones to her chest; leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses down the valley between her breasts, over the dusty peaks. He slips a hand between her legs, slips her panties aside. His fingertips test and tease, coaxing moans from her throat, sighs from her tongue.

Katara fumbles for the zipper on her skirt. He pulls his fingers out of her to help, leaving her with an empty feeling. He yanks the zipper down, then stands and stumbles across the car to the bed with her still wrapped around him.

The train’s horn sounds an _‘all aboard’_ blast. Zuko doesn’t even falter.

He untangles himself from her, fighting off the way she holds him possessively. His shirt flutters to the floor and lands beside her camisole. His touch slows after that, trailing up from her ankles to the top of her skirt. His thumbs hook under the edge, and he tugs the garment down, taking her panties, too.

 _“Wow…”_ Zuko sighs longingly, standing at the bottom of the bed, one knee on the mattress. He drinks her in with his bottom lip caught in his teeth. “You’re never putting your clothes back on.”  

Katara laughs, hoping he can’t see how difficult it is for her to breathe. “I’d say the same about you… but, your jeans…”

She smirks, watching him hesitate at the edge of the mattress. He looks torn for a moment, like he can’t decide if kissing her half-clothed is better or worse than joining her naked on the sheets. He decides on the latter, fidgeting with the button on his pants.

“Are you sure, Katara?” Zuko asks, the sound of a zipper filling the resulting silence.

She’s staring, perhaps too hungrily, at the slim shape of his hipbones as he undoes his fly; at the new sight of dark, coarse hair as his jeans fall with his boxers and he kicks free of them.

“Zuko… _Fuck.”_

He’s as hard as she is wet. Katara whines under her breath, grabbing at the quilt because he’s ripping the foil open and rolling the condom on, all out of her reach.

 _“Yes._ Yes, I’m sure.”

He laughs shyly, “Me too.”

Then, her hands aren’t full of the quilt anymore. They’re full of him, grabbing at his hair as he kisses her neck, skimming down his back as he lines up with her hips, cupping his ass as he sinks into her.

She feels him smile against her skin. Then, she feels him move.

Zuko figures out what she likes quickly---  long, lazy thrusts that let her memorize every inch of him--- learning from the way her throat tightens around his name, how she lifts off the mattress to find more friction. Katara cries out every time his body is flush with hers again, begging for more, for harder, _faster._  

Katara digs her feet into the bed and he shifts, rolling to his back and dragging her on top of him. She moves like the ocean, like a rip current that’s violent and wild. The heels of her palms press into his chest. His fingernails leave crescent moons on her hips.

“Keep... Keep doing that.” The way Zuko grits his teeth, the way his skin turns a muted pink and his eyes flash a bright gold, makes her reach that coveted peak. “Fuck! _Katara---”_

 " _\---Zuko.”_

Katara gasps, hardly able to breathe, unable to stay upright, much less maintain the grinding pattern she’d been working on top of him. She sees red, hears her blood pounding in her ears. He wraps his arms around her when she falls forward, one hand on her ass to draw out their high.

“God…” Zuko’s lips brush her shoulder, and he moves them onto their sides. “Katara…”

As the pleasure fades away, it’s hanging on the tip of her tongue.

He says it first. “I’m in love with you, Katara.”

She smiles, her eyes closing like it will keep the moment from ending. She nuzzles the hollow of his throat.

“Zuko, I love you, too.”

* * *

Katara stirs to the smell of waffles.

It’s dark beyond the windows, but from the warm lamp light, she can make out the reflection of Zuko sprawled out on his stomach beside her. He’s still naked, still on top of the quilt, like her. She uncurls from the tight ball she’s in, and realizes he’s covered her with one of his flannel button downs.

The gesture alone makes her want to cry. Katara’s eyes start to water when Zuko notices she’s awake, tosses his magazine aside, and tugs her close to him.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he says, pecking her nose. “I ordered breakfast for dinner.”

She coaxes his lips to her own, “Because you remember my love for Eggos?”

“It’s not that hard.” He gets up from the bed after a kiss, gathering the covered tray and two silverware sets. “You kept demanding them in Vegas.”

Katara bolts upright with mock horror, “That night did not happen.”

“Oh… yes it did, Moonpeach.”

He smirks. In the vibrant gold of his eyes, she’s reliving it--- the shots in the hotel room, the dances on the bartop, that nickname that fumbled from his lips because she wouldn't stop drinking peach vodka and screaming at the moon.

Katara shakes her head with an embarrassed smile, and shrugs on the flannel that has been temporarily forgotten. Zuko finishes cutting the waffles into pieces and offers her a bite.

“Just so you know, I told my uncle.”

She swallows the waffle with a start. “That we- that we _had sex?”_

“What?! No!” Zuko laughs, almost nervously, and his cheeks burn red. “I- _uh---_ I told him you’re maybe my girlfriend.”

“Maybe?”

She won’t let him know it, but the title comforts her.

Katara was never great with the hook-up scene; the few times she tried ended disastrously. She either got too attached, like that hot-n-cold mess she had with Jet, or not attached at all… One stupid, bald boy seemed to think she owed him something simply because he managed an orgasm on her end.

But, god, is she attached to Zuko. She’d confessed as much, he had too --- _I’m in love with you, Katara_ \--- that still didn’t mean she’d expected anything.

Zuko can’t read her thoughts, however, and takes her query as reluctance. “Only... only if you want to be. I won’t force it on you.”

“I do. I love you.”

Katara lifts up on her knees, leaning over the tray of food to kiss his cheek. When she pulls away, Zuko says it back.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

They leave Vienna with just sixteen days left. Their trip continues with a week in Italy, then they board a ferry for Greece.

Zuko rents a waterfront villa in Crete. Katara finds a use for all the lingerie stuffed in her bags.

They refuse to talk about the coming end, the coming departure. Instead, they drown out the worries with long days days spent in the sun’s heat and late night swims in the sea.

* * *

But all their avoidance catches up to them.

They’ve just landed in Heathrow. She’s supposed to be boarding her connecting flight back to the States. He should be leaving, going back to whatever he does in London when she’s not around.

Katara finds herself glaring at him in the busy terminal, finds herself ignoring the chipper announcement about _‘Group 3 - Now Boarding for Honolulu.’_

“You don’t know?” She growls, shouldering her purse like it’s her armor. “You can’t just--- how do you spend all that time with me? How do you call me your girlfriend to anyone who asks, and not know when you’ll see me?”

“I just… I don’t know my calender off the top of my head, Katara.” Zuko sounds irritated, flippant, like _‘how dare she snap at him in the middle of an airport?’_

Her nostrils flare as her pride stings. “You have a smartphone, Zuko.”

“I’m sorry.” His throat bobs with a harsh swallow, and he shakes his head. “I have a business to run. I can’t up and leave whenever I want.”

“You can’t? Is that not what you just did, for _six_ weeks?”

“That was planned.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Katara scoffs. “You bought me a last minute ticket!”

Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes fluttering shut indignantly and his mouth pressing into a thin line of annoyance.

“The _time off_ was planned, Katara. I had the trip laid out for weeks--- _You_ were last minute.”

“Oh.”

She flinches at that, and the next announcement --- _‘Group 6! Groups 1 through 6, Now Boarding’_ \--- startles her attention away from him. It’s easier that way, staring in the direction of the counter clerk, rather than looking at him.

“I- I was last minute,” Katara isn’t sure she meant to say that aloud, but since she has… She forces down the feeling that she’s been used. She forces it down with a jerky nod and digs through her purse for her passport and ticket.

“Okay, great. _Cool._ I’ll see you around, Zuko.”

She starts for the line, but he grabs her. “That’s not what I---”

And, Katara wrenches away. “Don’t!”

Her bicep twinges where his fingers wrapped around her. She’s aware she may be causing a scene. A number of faces have turned their way, gaping eyes and gawking mouths. Her skin flushes pink, and Katara tries for a softer tone.

“Don’t touch me.” _Perfect._ It’s a whisper, a cracking, warbling whisper. “I… I really thought this was going to be something.”

“Katara...”

He reaches for her again, this time softer and gentler. His fingertips brush across her cheeks, up into her hair. His lips tickle her forehead.   _“Please…_ Call me when you land.”

She holds onto to his hips for a minute, unable to answer him, then pushes away.

“I love you, Zuko.”

His eyes are rimmed with red and watering.

“I love you. _I do.”_

* * *

Spring comes and goes. She hasn’t seen him since the bitter split in London, if that even was a split.

Katara _did_ call him when she made it back to Hawaii. He _did_ apologize and offer a dozen promises about visiting in the summer.

Zuko makes an effort with phone calls everyday and FaceTime for hours at a time on the weekends. Katara texts him from the moment she wakes up until she’s falling asleep, sprinkling in pictures and videos to keep his mind stuck on that train ride and the lingerie. He sends her gifts with handwritten letters.

She assumes that means they’re _together,_ but that doesn’t mean it’s enough. It’s never enough.

She wants--- No, she _needs_ him.

Katara saves up by working odd jobs around the island between her classes. If he can surprise her with an international trip, she can do the same, right? Maybe not so abrupt and not so extravagant, but she has her eye on an Economy Plus seat on a plane that leaves June 2nd, landing the day before her graduation from medical school.

It’s May 2nd, now, and she checks her bank balance one last time. Then, Katara clicks over to Kayak.com, finds the flight she wants, and puts Zuko in an aisle seat.

He’d like that, she thinks. He has long legs.

Her email dings once--- the receipt. Katara winces a bit at the $1,037.49 price tag, but swallows the pain of her depleted savings. Another chime, and the itinerary comes through, which she forwards off to [zhiroku@hotmail.com](mailto:zhiroku@gmail.com), along with an e-vite to her graduation.

Katara holds her breath, holds out hope when she gets a notification that the email has been read.

Her phone doesn’t ring. It buzzes, and her heart drops at that.

He’d only text her because he doesn’t have the courage to listen to her voice breaks right before she cries.

Katara sucks in a deep breath, and somehow finds the strength to read the message.

** `Kat. Babe. I’m sorry.` **

The three grey dots pop up again. She knows he’s giving more of an explanation, but she hates him right then.

 **`Forget it,`** Katara sends.

The dots stop. Her heart thuds in her chest. Then, they start again, and another text comes through.

** `Katara, you know I want to be there. But, I have meetings with the Beifongs all week and I can’t reschedule them. They’re my biggest investor...` **

** `I can pay you back for the ticket.` **

** `I love you, Kat. I’m sorry.` **

The screen goes blurry as tears well up. Katara types angrily. **`I don’t want your money.`**

* * *

June comes with a sweeping heat, scorching her skin and everything she can see.

In the past, Katara may have found comfort in the warmth. It’s steady and relentless, like him. It caresses her cheeks and blazes against her skin, like his fingers.

She leaves her graduation with a bitter taste in her mouth, though. It all feels wrong. The sun, the temperature, _them._

They keep missing each other’s calls. They keep forgetting texts. Katara’s afraid it’s fizzling out. She wonders if he’s decided their trip is a one time thing, a romantic getaway, with the romance left behind in Greece.

Katara convinces herself that she’s okay with this.

We’re just friends, she tells herself. _Just friends._

* * *

Katara is grappling with her surfboard, trudging up the path to her house, when she sees him.

He’s lounging with her dad on the porch, kicked back in a t-shirt and boardshorts, sipping from an amber bottle of some local brew. His skin is such a pale ivory that he looks out of place, even when compared to the tourists crowding the better-known beaches. His hair matches the black sand of the bay she just left, and his face looks waxen in the heat.

His eyes, though--- his eyes are as alive as the lava spilling into the sea, snapping and crackling and flaring up with a wild heat. The gold brightens as he smiles.

“You haven’t given up surfing, yet?” Zuko’s gaze drifts to the board under her arm. “Have you gotten any better?”

Katara gawks at him. Then, her glare turns on her dad. He’s quiet. He doesn’t even come to her defense, despite her gaping stare and obvious frustration. She’s told him everything. He knows about the trip and her breaking heart and _this fucking asshole---_

“I’ve improved a lot,” she snaps, blue eyes hard, “not that you would know, considering I _wasted_ a grand on you... and all your forgotten promises to visit.”

“Kat.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m mad at you.”

Zuko glances at Hakoda in a plea for support, and Katara wonders for moment what the two men had been talking about. _Was Zuko trying to explain himself? Did her dad_ listen _to him?_ She smiles inwardly when Hakoda sips his beer.

“Katara,” Zuko tries again, setting his drink aside and standing up. He moves towards the stairs like he’s going to join her on the gravel path, but Katara steps back. A sigh parts his lips, puffs his cheeks, and Zuko resigns to stay put.

“Katara, I never broke a promise to you.”

She clenches her teeth, “You said you would visit.”

“In the summer. I said I would visit you in the summer, and here I am.”

“Great, so you get off on a technicality,” she growls. “You missed my graduation, Zuko!”

Her biceps ache with the weight of the surfboard, but Katara shifts it in front of her abdomen like a shield. She fears the emotional shrapnel, if this thing crashes and burns.

“You’ve missed _a lot.”_

“I know. I’m sorry,” Zuko says. She can tell he’s desperate from how his fingers wrap around the porch railing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there and I’m sorry we’ve been so out of sync. I’ve been---”

“---busy?”

A thickness fills the air, and the accusation hangs between them.

“Do you know how _sick_ I am from hearing that excuse?” Katara snarls, every muscle in her face pinching into a harsh sneer. “You’re always busy! You have this meeting and these delegates and--- Do I only get you for six weeks a year? Or do I only get you when it’s last minute and unplanned?”  

Her voice cracks at the end, her chest heaving with emotion she won’t let him see. And Zuko… he’s silent, his eyes turned down to the ground as his lips open and close with a search for a different answer. But, he doesn’t have one. He can’t think of anything.

“Yep,” Katara huffs. “That’s what I thought.”

She’s ready to turn and run, run back to the beach where the water can hide her tears; until, her dad coughs awkwardly, drawing Zuko’s stare.

Hakoda’s head jabs sharply to the west. Something is mumbled between them, something she can’t make out until her dad looks at her and she catches, “Just go show it to her.”

“What? Show me _what?”_

Her father rolls his eyes at the same time Zuko steps off the porch. When his hands steal the surfboard away and he sets it aside, Katara is half bent on fighting him off, on yelling at her dad for even letting the stupid hot head into the house.  

Zuko’s whisper is low, though, low and soft; it makes her pause. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, ensnaring her fingers in his. _“Please.”_

“Where?”

She struggles in his grasp. His eyes are molten--- that same soft gold she saw on the train, right after he rolled them onto their sides and told her he loved her. She can still feel his fingers in her hair, his lips on her collarbones--- but, he refuses to let her go.

Katara swallows, and gives in.

Zuko leads her away from her father’s house, up the path where little bungalows line the cliffside. There’s a hitch in his gait, like his body is tight with nerves. He’s breathless, too. Even from her place behind him, Katara imagines his mouth parting slightly with a million thoughts hanging on his lips.

“You get me fifty-two weeks of the year,” he says, finally, when they halt. It makes no sense.

Katara squints at him, then takes in her surroundings. They’ve stopped a quarter mile up the dirt road, in front of a small, colorful home covered in windows that all overlook her favorite, hidden lagoon.

“I don’t get it.”

“I let Toph Beifong buy me out.”

“What?”

“I sold my shares,” he explains. Zuko releases her hand, his chin jerking at the _‘Sold’_ sign swinging in the ocean breeze. “I used the profits to buy this place. You get me fifty-two weeks of the year. From now on, Katara… every minute you want, planned and unplanned.”

She gawks at him, disbelieving, “You sold your--- Zuko, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.”

Zuko holds out his palm, and this time, Katara takes it willingly. She walks with him to the home’s front porch, sits beside him when he relaxes on the second step.

“I hurt you,” he says, biting his lip. Katara hugs her knees to her chest, waiting for him to go on. “It wasn’t right, the way things unfolded between us, and a lot of that was due to my work. I wasn’t there, not how you wanted and not how you deserved.”

“But... you’re here now.” Katara glances sideways at him, trying to gauge what flitting through his head. She’s always had such a talent for reading him, but after so many strained months, she doesn’t dare venture a guess.

He seems to read her thoughts, and fills the silence. “I’m asking for a second chance. I’m asking for your forgiveness... and if I can have that, I’ll date you and romance you... I’ll be here. I’ll _stay_ here. And, I’ll be yours. Irrevocably.”

“I can forgive you, Zuko. That’s easy.”

“Oh.” A sigh rushes from him. The few parts of him that touch her--- his thigh, his hip, his arm--- they visibly relax. Zuko runs his hands up into his hair, then stretches his arms out, flexes his fingers in relief. “Great. Good. _Thank you,_ Katara.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t? Even when I’m mad at you, you’re still my favorite person.”

“I just… I was worried, I guess.” Zuko flashes a happy grin.

She fights a smile all the way to her lips, but her mouth betrays her, curling upwards at the edges.

Because he’s here, and he’s _hers;_ no more wondering, no more doubts.

Katara slides closer, as close as she can, and wraps her hands around his bicep.

“You missed the sea?” she asks, her cheek on his shoulder.

“I did, terribly.” Zuko nods, and his fingertips whisper along the bottom of her jaw, drawing her eyes up to his. She can feel him trembling when his nose brushes hers, and his breath tickles when he laughs quietly.

“I _love_ the sea.”

“And I---” Katara memorizes the sound of those words, then leans in to press her lips to his. When she pulls away, his eyes shine like the setting sun--- “I love the heat.”


End file.
